


And How, Tomorrow, They’ll Be Missed

by historia_vitae_magistras



Series: The tulips make me want... [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Tulip Festival, buttfucking and feels per the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 16:11:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12112389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historia_vitae_magistras/pseuds/historia_vitae_magistras
Summary: In the years just after the war, Johan recovers his people and pride. In the years just after the war, Matthew is the happiest he's ever been. In the years after the war, they exchanged affection and flowers.One shot. Complete.





	And How, Tomorrow, They’ll Be Missed

_The tulips make me want to paint,_  
_Something about the way they drop\_  
_Their petals on the tabletop_  
_And do not wilt so much as faint,_  
_Something about their burnt-out hearts,_  
_Something about their pallid stems_  
_Wearing decay like diadems,_  
_Parading finishes like starts,_  
_Something about the way they twist_  
_As if to catch the last applause,_  
_And drink the moment through long straws,_  
_And how, tomorrow, they’ll be missed._  
_The way they’re somehow getting clearer,_  
_The tulips make me want to see—_  
_The tulips make the other me_  
_The backwards one who’s in the mirror,_  
_The one who can’t tell left from right)_  
_Glance now over the wrong shoulder_  
_To watch them get a little older  
_ _And give themselves up to the light._ __

* * *

1946  
Ottawa  
The Tulip Festival  
  
The bedroom was freezing, and when Matt slid into the bed, the cool of the soft plaid sheets brought up goose pimples. H was naked, and quiet. He was shy, that’s what made it all so touching. He liked to leave the lights off and reach for him under the covers. He knew what he was doing, but he was young, hesitant. The way his hand was working and teasing was plenty evidence of that. Johan turned sharply and gripped Matt by the back of the head, groaning. Matthew paused, as if unsure. He stopped, but his warm hand stayed where it was, mid twist. Johan nearly ground into him, but Matthew rose up on an elbow.

“Is this alright?” He asked, in that informal, ancient French of his. It’s easier than trying Johan’s shit English or Matthew’s far shittier Dutch and there’s a little of his sister’s accent in Matthew’s. Its warm, comfortable, familiar if far to flowery for his liking.

Johan nearly snorted. Matthew hadn’t bothered to ask, that day in Apeldoorn. The sun had been high and so had their blood. Matt had spiked his bayonet through the last bastard in the squared off helmet. That German been too stubborn to surrender, but Matt hadn’t even aimed. He’d just straightened his helmet, shouldered his rifle and flown through the machine gun fire for him. Maybe the New World was truly blessed, or maybe Matthew had just been fighting for long he had the timing of the ammo belts as ingrained in him as his circadian rhythm. Either way, Johan had found himself flat on his back in the sand bags, trapped in a tight embrace as warm as summer beer. Orange had exploded behind his eyes, the furious joy of his people ringing in his ears. Liberation, food, warmth. Liberation, food, warmth given freely by the Canadians. Not freely, no— they had paid for it. In both their blood and lives. But they’d paid their share against the Germans and asked for nothing. There are few in their world, with their long lives and their brutal ways. There are fewer still who can find it in them to be kind to another. There were none capable of fighting for nothing but good will and idealism.

Well, none that he had known of. Now there’s one and Johan wonders if he needs words to explain that one didn’t need to ask when something like love or freedom was offered, no strings attached. Or maybe one did, but not when it came from hands as warm as Matthew’s. But he decided for an affirmative grunt. Matthew’s hands had been harder then, cracked and callused over from a hard winter on the Belgian frontier and a harder spring of blood in the water.  

At this minimal piece of permission, Matt made a happy sound, relief turning into a snort of laughter. It made Johan think of a Newfoundland puppy, a creature whose playful, happy behavior should have had nothing to do with its size. He dragged his hand up and down, lifting and twisting. Hard and aching, Johan propped himself up on an elbow and Matthew took advantage of the angle to kiss him. He’s strong, stronger than any of the European powers have ever been. He’s strong in a way the world across the ocean doesn’t know how to be. A strength that adds grace, prevents and boxes in force rather than tearing apart. Gentle hands continued their stroking, his hands, his lips, his tongue. Gentle. Not frightening. Knowing what he was doing. It’s going to drive him mad. Two more arcing strokes and then Matthew is running his thumb in a lattice over the head. And that’s it, that’s all he can take.

“Roll over.”

Matthew laughs. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Matthew slid off his glasses, swung left to deposit them on the bedside table. He rummaged in the drawer, returns with a woman’s cold cream. Johan nearly laughed at him, but Matthew’s grin is so pleased he can’t bring himself to. Matthew returned and spread the cold cream into his hand with two fingers. He paused then, hands open in front of him, smeared white.  

“What are you waiting for? The nuclear apocalypse? C’mon,” Matthew’s got that brother of his to the south. The one with a big head and even bigger dreams and pockets far, far deeper than his thoughts. Victory is sweet, peace is sweeter, life sweeter still. And he’s got them all. Matthew glanced up, his mouth pulled to the side in a wry smile. He’s got big eyes, without those glasses.

“For it to warm up.”

Johan was quiet at that bit of kindness. He’s quiet until Matthew swooped low and bit a kiss into his thigh. There are no teeth, but it's a hard kiss regardless. More pepper his thighs and belly and then Matt’s hands smooth the sweet smelling cream over him and he bites a moan. He pushed and swirled his fingers in careful, gentle strokes. He’s good, not getting any of that stuff in the eye but shit if he’s not too gentle. Gentle and slow— God so fucking slow. Matthew moves as gradually as one of his northern ice sheets, glacial fucker that he is. Johan is used to movement, the pushing and pulling of the tides, the break and flow of levees and ponds, the rush and run of rivers, but fuck if he hasn’t had enough of blitzkrieg. Matthew wiped his hand on his thigh, satisfied with his work and pulled the blanket up higher over them, smooths it over the and finally, finally turns over on all fours.

It’s a smooth coupling. Johan spread Matthew’s ass, slid a finger just inside the ring of muscle and for once in his life, there’s no forcing himself inside, old world style. He just eases himself in and found Matthew’s sigh is louder than his own. He ground down, Matt rolled back. Strong shoulders working, he reached a hand back for Johan and Johan gripped it, kissed his knuckles, kissed his back. Anywhere he could reach. They keep a rhythm like the tides— push in, pull away. Push in, pull away. They were trying to lose control. Kissing, holding, rolling on and off, slowly and then faster, ever faster. Johan should have set the pace he was the one wielding here, but when Matthew wanted faster, he went faster. They moved purposefully, into and against each other. Matthew following what he wanted as he understood it.

Matthew muttered something in strange French. Something about a chalice and a tabernacle and grain. But it was hoarse and high and he was shuddering around Johan like he might come apart and Johan wasn’t far behind. He was giving way, that deepest most relaxed a man could be was rising to the surface. Joy like the first tulips of the year rising under the last of the frost. Matthew held the end of the bed, and for the first time in his life, Johan wished he could see the face of the man whose ass he held beneath him.  

“Jesus fucking mother of god—”  

Well good to know that bit of English hadn’t changed. He thrust once, twice more and that’s it that’s all he could do before Matthew uttered some more odd piece of French Catholicism. Three more deep strokes and Johan followed, the knot at the crux of his thighs exploding. He went tense, saw white, and then melted, falling forward as Matthew’s stance on all fours gave way and they collapsed together into a sweaty heap of long sprawled limbs. How tall could a man be? Largest country in the world save for that icy fucker to the east. Matt rolled, disengaging. Johan gaped at him a little. How could he be so eager to move already, but fuck if he was going to say anything. Matthew rolled onto his back and pulled Johan on top of him so their chests were flush against each other and their legs tangled together down under the sheets.

“Holy shit.” Johan muttered his Dutch into Matthew’s chest. “That was—” He heaved a breath. Matthew’s Dutch was shit, but not shitty enough. He beamed down and suddenly Johan understood snow blindness, how even a weak light could be dazzling when reflected in snow, or in this case, white teeth. That genuine, brilliant, opened mouth smile unique to North America and her infinite wealth, health and happiness.  

“Yeah?” Matthew said, his flushed face looking utterly too pleased with himself.

“Yeah,” Johan grunted, and— oh for fuck’s sake, why not? There was no one to see and this Northern Power wouldn’t think less of him for it. He rolled to the side and buried his face in Matthew’s warm, sweetsmelling hair to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The bulk of Canadian troops involved in Europe during the Second World War liberated the Netherlands in 1945, relieving what would be known to history as the Hunger Winter as well as the German occupation of the Netherlands. The Dutch princess was born in Canada with Canadian territory being temporarily made international so she could be a Dutch, rather than Canadian citizen. In the years that came, the Dutch and Canadians would be eternally bound together in a unique, a-political partnership that lasts until this day. 
> 
> As a Canadian, I have gotten utterly fucked up drunk for free in the Netherlands and been toasted for what our grandfathers did together. It's one of the few Hetalia ships without power struggle or pain. It is one based on mutual and deep affection. Two countries bound by history in a way that isn't only blood and hell just fucks me up. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr here: https://historia-vitae-magistras.tumblr.com/
> 
> I post history and Hetalia and aesthetics.
> 
> Kudos, comments and critiques are life. Thank you for reading!!!


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